Yours was the death, yours was the dying.

I found you in

the pauper’s field

and something sang through me

(if there

ever was a song)—

which I could

speak to myself, very quietly,

and move along.

Oh in my heart,

do you not think I am a part of this?

Bless the failure, bless the flame,

bless my fruitless attempt,

the shame.

And what do I do with this love,

that sticks like pitch to my heart—and will never

let me go.

Why I am standing in your image.

Do not try to change it—

to turn it into something

joyous and free—

you are here—you are gone—

dead—

uncreated light.